


the leaves are falling (and lay deep and still)

by Demeter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3834766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demeter/pseuds/Demeter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alayne lives in the Eyrie until she doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the leaves are falling (and lay deep and still)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the 2013 SanSan Holiday Exchange, for Yavannie

_The air smells of soot and misery, of charred flesh and screams. She closes her eyes, huddles beneath a dirty white cloak and tries to sing. Her voice sticks in her throat, like a rock in the gutter. She cannot sing. A crack rumbles through the world outside her tower room and the shouting intensifies. There are a thousand people dying outside, there are a thousand people being torn apart._

_There are a thousand people who fight for a story, and in one of them, she will live._

_(and in one of them, she will die)_

_She wants her mother. She wants her father. She wants her brothers. She wants her sister. But none of them are here. None of them can save her and none will bring her home to Winterfell._

_Sansa grips the cloak around her and she squeezes her eyes shut. She pretends. She pretends that she is in the courtyard of Winterfell, that her brothers Robb and (oh, oh, Jon) Bran are mock-fighting in the snow. She sings in a corner, with Rickon nestled in her arms and_

_(sweet baby brother, how old would he be now if not for the traitorturncoatkinslayertraitortraitor traitor?)_

_Arya, for once, flying between the two rather than abandoning her. The air is full of song, is full of laughter, is crisp and clean and cold. It smells of a warm summer, of the green grass that is always wet with dew, and the woods that fill her lungs with the sounds of life and love._

_She looks up and her eyes fill, for the northern sky above is bluer than Catelyn Stark’s eyes. A whisper, a brush, a growl, a heavy hand falls upon her shoulder and her heart fills, it tries, it does burst. Her stomach is on fire and she parts her lips and it doesn’t pause, she doesn’t disappoint. Burnt corners, rough scabs, and it would be like tree bark against the soft skin of her teeth if not for the lingering sweetness, the taste of ice and longing, of misplaced hopes and half-woven dreams._

_Sansa smiles, the blood in her mouth, and she bares her neck to the Hound as his fangs close around the soft remainders of her heart._

 

* * *

 

 

Alayne opened her eyes.

The haze of memory still streamed through her blood and her limbs were heavy and sluggish in the aftermath of her dream A swallow, a twist, and she rolled up from the bedding and peered out between the messy strands of her undone knot of hair.

_No, not a memory_ , she thought. _Only a madness._

A bastard-borne dream.

Her hand wrapped its way around her neck, and the roughness of phantom fingers lingered on the skin, like a hot branding. Alayne lightly scraped fingernails down the pale skin of her neck and closed the gap around the hollow of her throat. If she pretended, if she clenched her fingers just so… Alayne breathed. She took the hand away and glanced around her chambers.

The ache of the cold burrowed into the exposed skin on her arms. The sun hasn’t risen, but the gray morning light was flooding the room with shadows and there were already sounds that had begun to echo in the stones of the Eyrie. Dawn had come and another day was about to begin for Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Trident.

She pulled a robe on, left at the closing of last evening by one of the Vale’s many thoughtful maids. She wasn’t a fanciful girl. Their kindness and obedience to her words were less a sign of their respect for her and more a sign of their fear of Petyr Baelish. A bastard she might be, but Lord Baelish didn’t allow any disrespect to be shown to her; it demonstrated his own power when his natural daughter was treated so obviously well. He openly doted on her, and it made her ever the more valuable to second sons and wealthy merchants. She rubbed her hands together at the cold of the room. Many were looking to ignore her bastard origins in the belief that Lord Baelish would be willing to hand over large sums of gold and land for taking her hand. Even first sons could reasonably consider it, when one thought about the vast quantities of wealth Littlefinger was rumoured to have.

(Perhaps even an heir.)

Alayne smoothed the covers of her thick blankets and smiled. She certainly lived in comfort and security. Even if that security came with ever-more unwanted kisses and quiet, sly touches in the dark. She swallowed back the thickness in her throat. _No._ Her heart hammered for a second, but she ignored the nausea that came with it.

She rose from her bed and looked out her windows to the east. The sun barely peeked beyond the skyline, but Alayne knew it was later than it might once be. The days were getting shorter and there was already talk about packing up for the journey down to the Gates of the Moon, for the closing of the Eyrie and the beginning of a long winter sequestered beneath. The snows were already building up in light drifts and of course, that was a sign from the Gods

_(winter is coming)_

and it was fortunate the Vale was well-stocked and supplied with the possibility of long years in front. Alayne nodded. Yes, indeed. She was quite fortunate to be here, where there was no fear of starvation and where she was safe from rape and pillage, from the wars of Westeros. Alayne was no fool; a bastard girl would have fared far worse elsewhere.

Alayne pulled on a bell and not long after, one of Eyrie maids knocked for entrance and pushed the door open with a full tray of hot tea and pastries. The tea was weak - the leaves were difficult to find in Westeros with the shipping lanes from Pentos disturbed by the escalating tariffs- and the pastries were dry, but she has a fully belly, and insisted that the Eyrie maid share with her. She saw the way the other girl had eyed the food and how she hastily eats, stuffing bites into her mouth and swallowing them almost whole. Alayne nibbled on her own food and knew that while everyone was being fed, not everyone was doing well.

 

* * *

 

By mid-morning, everything was the usual whirlwind of getting dressed and sitting with Randa and Mya, embroidery in her hands and ears wide open. The girls tended to chatter and with each word, Alayne found out more of the outside world than Petyr might have liked her to know.

Westeros was in the beginning grips of winter and the refugees of the War were growing into a rushing stream. At first, she saw that Petyr took pleasure in being lord and master to so many. Or rather, to so many who were grateful to the point of groveling to him. It made Littlefingers feel big. But as the numbers grew into a deluge and the stream became unending, she also saw how his eyes had grown heavy with avarice.

No, Littlefingers never did anything, big or little, without some sort of benefit to himself. Alayne wondered just how he would convince the other Lords that it was in their best interest to ignore the ancient laws of hospitality, and stem the tide. They didn’t like him. He was an interloper, a high-off-his-breeches upstart who came into the Vale through no true blood of his own.

No, they did not like Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Paramount of the Trident.

(sometimes, she lay awake at night, wondering whether any of them would declare for her. But no. Why would they? She was but a bastard girl-child with no family to speak of.)

She pleaded a headache to Randa. They clucked in worry over her, and after reassuring them it was naught but a small pain, she took her embroidery, her needles, and the gossip with her.

It was then, while passing by the kitchens, that she heard that there was a group of men coming up from the Gates and that they apparently were Brothers of the Faith, perhaps from King’s Landing.

Alayne dropped her embroidery, bent down to pick it up, missed with her trembling fingers, and then grabbed it again and ran toward Petyr Baelish’s chambers.

_King's Landing._

 

* * *

 

 

She knocked. She didn’t dare not knock.

“Enter.”

When Alayne peeked in, she saw her father standing by the windows, one of the wooden shutters pulled open against the icy wind. A fire was roaring in the hearth, but the room was chilly, fingers of winter reaching into the corners and swirling up to the rafters. Some might think it was but an accident, but Alayne knew; her father liked the cold.

“Father?”

Lord Baelish didn’t turn, but she saw his shoulders loosen. “Hello, my daughter. I presume you have heard about travelers at the Gates?”

Alayne nodded before realizing that he wouldn’t see her. “Yes, father, what if the Brothers are from King’s Landing?”

He was silent for a moment. And then, with a drawl. “Do not worry, dear daughter. I have been watching them, and I see their robes. They wear not the ornate robes of the Great Sept of Baelor. Those are the robes of the Contemplative Brothers, those who have sworn an oath of silence to prove their faith to the Seven.” Alayne heard the smallest drop of derision in his voice, but he masked it well with blandness. “Stay firm, sweet Alayne. They will not bother you. I imagine they are from the Quiet Isle. There is a septry there.”

“Oh, of course, Father. I was only worried. I… I would not want anyone to take me away…” Alayne fills her voice with anxiousness and fear, knew what would most pique Petyr’s tenderness and love. And it worked; he immediately clucked and hurried to her. The door was closed to his chambers so an arm immediately came around her waist. She pushed away the revulsion welling up in her. She kept her eyes lowered. And what seemed like a sweet coquettishness was merely a way for her to hide what she feared would show in her gaze.

Petyr tightened his embrace and the thumb grasped at her waist strayed upward toward her chest. He was getting bolder and bolder. A tiny stroke, just one, against the side of her breast and she quaked once, twice. It was enough. Petyr looked pleased and traced her lips with the fingers of his other hand.

“You are a good daughter, sweetling. We shall go down and welcome the Brothers, for we have nothing to hide, nothing at all. It will be good to hear the news the would have; the Brothers would not travel all this way for nothing.” He strokes the side of her breast once, twice. Again. “Give your father a kiss.” His little beard rustled and his eyes gleamed in the shadows cast by the flickering fire.

Alayne looked at him and allowed her smile to crease upwards. She pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek and allowed the corner of her mouth to just barely brush his.

“You are truly a _blessing_ to your father in his old age, Alayne. Now, let us descend to meet the Brothers.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they had come down the spiraling stone stairs, the rest of the Eyrie had found out that they had new and unusual visitors. Nothing travels quite as fine as gossip and people were content to dash about with this fresh piece to gnaw upon. After the brothers were inspected and after the guards were satisfied that there were only the bare minimum of weapons – no one was foolish enough to travel without, even Brothers of the Faith – they were allowed into the Great Hall.

Alayne joined the other girls in the crowd, with Randa at the head of the welcome. The girl was practically jumping in her thrum of excitement.

Petyr Baelish, Lord Paramount of the Trident, strode up to them and smiled. “Dear Brothers, we welcome the Faith to our home.” Petyr gestured around him, a welcoming picture of lordly hospitality, and in the corner of her eye, Alayne saw how Randa discreetly nudged Mya and the two tittered behind their hands. “Bring hot food and drink, and allow the Brothers to rest their sore feet, for they must be tired and cold after their long journey.”

The Brothers were ushered toward the dining halls, and they stamped their dirty wet feet against the rushes that covered the stone floors. Her eyes wandered over the group; they were all clothed in full brown cloaks; with cowls and heavy scarves, it was difficult to tell much about the men except for their comparative heights. It was little disconcerting and exciting how much they all looked like each other. She could feel Randa’s interest stir beside her; so many of the new visitors to the Vale were refugees fleeing the madness of the wars. They were never in the mood to regale her with happenings in the world. The Brothers would be a veritable flood of information for her; the gleam in her hungry eyes reminded Alayne of just how long they had all been there.

Alayne saw several of the Brothers sneak glances at them, at the women. At first, she tensed; what if one of them _was_ from King’s Landing and recognized her? But she relaxed as soon as she saw how their eyes were roving lower than her face. Lower than _all_ their faces. She saw the flesh around their noses flush, as if they had suddenly overheated. And she had to inwardly snort. It was more that they were _women_ and women were now rare in their world of silence and penitence.

Many of the men didn't bother disguising their interest, but the tallest of the men didn't even look at them, staring straight into the fire as if the warmth was his only concern. He rubbed at his leg as if it pained him.

(Unbidden, Sansa remembers another man, larger than any she knew, with a voice of steel scraping over stone, and oddly gentle hands.)

Randa stepped forward and fell into a respectful curtsy. “Brothers, if you would please follow me to the dining hall.” As the daughter of Lord Nestor Royce, she served as Lady of the Vale. With Lady Lysa dead, and Lord Robert ill, the duty fell upon her, as the next lady in status and bloodlines.

(Once upon a time, it would have been her, as the last surviving Stark.)

Alayne allowed herself to be swept up in the gaggle of women who followed the procession of silent Brothers to the dining hall. There, she allowed herself to peek at the men as many unwound scarves from their faces and others stayed covered up with hoods pulled low and sleeves pulled long. Some were ugly, freshly scarred. Others were barely of ten and five, the youth of their blood still in the fine hairs of their chins. It was an incongruous sight, one they weren't allowed to peek at long before the kitchen cook shooed them all out.

“Out, out, the lot of you! Let the poor Brothers eat in peace and quiet!”

Laughing, the girls and women left in a flurry of skirts and ruffles and Alayne with them; she couldn't help it though. She turned again to look at them, to reassure herself one last time that there was no one she knew and no one who would recognize the long-missing dead. And she saw the tallest man, one of the few who had elected to stay covered up, glance quickly away from their direction. She didn't let her feet pause or trip over themselves. But still. She hurried out the door all the same, and felt a gaze burn into her back.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, Alayne lay in her bed, skin growing cold and white as snow.

Several of the ladies had stayed up late into the night within the safety of Randa's sitting room, and she deemed it a special enough occasion to break open a cask of wine. They all had several glasses, even prim and proper Alayne. It was enough to make her giddy and flushed, and Mya had to escort her back to her rooms. She was tired and dizzy enough that she hadn't bothered to take off her dress, only loosening the stays. The cold air felt good against her hot skin.

She had tried to pull the covers back, but gave up after several moments of ineffectual tugging. She collapsed on top of the bedding and pulled her knees upward until she was rolled into a ball.

The world was spiraling close around her. She closed her eyes.

 

_Winterfell is still and quiet and little Sansa is weeping. She muffles her cries into her sleeves, muffles the sounds that are hitching out of her throat. She mustn't let anyone hear her hurt, mustn't let her lady Mother think her the injured party here. She presses her hands closer to her mouth._

_All she'd wanted was to play with them, even if it means playing with her bastard brother. She didn't meant to say anything, didn't mean to call Jon a bastard, it is only a slip of a tongue. Sansa is small, knows Jon's place is small in her world, but Arya loves him, Father loves him, Robb loves him, she mustn't let Mother have any reason to cut him to the quick, mustn't let her mother think herself alone against the world, against all of Winterfell and her children. But it puts Sansa out, it makes an enemy of Arya, Robb is always cautious when he speaks of Jon, and, and, and._

_Her sobs are ugly and awful and she thinks them hideous. She cries harder into her sleeves, muffles them harder._

_She wants to play, honest, that's all she wants. But Robb tries to exclude her in the gentlest way he can, Jon casts his eyes to the ground, and Arya._

_(oh, Arya, babysistersistersistersister)_

_Arya laughs. Arya snickers and says, “you're in a dress, Sansa! You can't play with us!”_

_She knows. Sansa knows. Arya didn't meant it like that. She only said the first thing to come to her mind; Sansa is a gentle lady and both her mother and septa always taught her gentle courtesies and to always be kind to her siblings, especially to her younger sister and brothers._

_(but never to Jon, oh, never to Jon)_

_But it hurts her, slashes her heart into ribbons._

_Robb must see something on her face, must see that Arya has cut her to the quick, because he stands and there is already an apology brightening his face, but she shies away, she actually takes a step back, and Jon notices as well, and he makes the motion to move and she can’t bear it, not if even Jon Snow pities her, and her feet turn and she runs from the scene, tears already streaming from her eyes and down her throat._

_She runs and she hides and she scrunches away. It is cold and quiet where she is, but from there, the castle is quiet and silent and Sansa can weep without worrying that someone will find her, that someone will try to find the culprit. There is no boy for Jory to scare, no hurt for Septa Mordane to coo over, no story she can give to Maester Luwin._

_She is here. She is alone, and Sansa cries._

 

 

Alayne sat up in bed and breathed. “No,” she whispered.

She shook her head to loosen the memories, to scatter them back to the winds. Her hand rubbed the bone against her heart. She was no one but Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish, Lord Paramount of the Trident.

The bedclothes were shaking, and she looked blankly down at the wooden frame before realizing that she was freezing, that the fire was dying in the hearth. Her skin was so cold she couldn't feel the rough linen scratch the tender skin of her forearms. She stood, shakily. The room swam around her and for a moment, she feared she would faint. Holding herself steady against a wooden chair, she saw a cup of clear, cold water on the table. For a moment, she stared at it without understanding what it was for.

_Mya must have placed it there,_ was the first thought she seemed capable of. _I am never drinking wine again._ That was the second. The water was delicious against her parched throat, it coursed through her blood, and chilled Alayne to her very bones.

(bird bones)

She staggered on shaky feet to the dying fire and picked up several pieces of wood from the stack next to the hearth. She thrust them into the embers and tried to stoke the fire with her awkward movements. Alayne clasped her hands together in front of the rebuilding flames and as the licks of fire crawled higher up the stones and refilled the room with its slow heat, she realized that there was a shadow in the corner of her room.

A hulking, dark shadow.

Alayne froze. A spit of terror curled her stomach into a circle around itself and her breath rushed out her lungs, was free, was there, she _has her breath_ , Alayne was Alayne, _Alayne is strong_ , Alayne grabbed one of the iron poles that sat against the firewood stack and she turned and the shadow was tall, was there, she swung, she swung as hard as she could and a hand grabbed the weapon before it even finished making the arc into his face.

They stood there, breathing hard for long seconds.

“Gods, girl. What happened to your hair?”

She looked up and stared straight into the ruined face of Sandor Clegane.

 

* * *

 

 

Petyr rubbed his chin. He knew that by nature, he was a suspicious man, but even this seemed ludicrous. They were harmless enough, the Brothers. But he had not gotten to where he currently sat by accepting truths spouted to him without the point of a spear. No. He smoothed his tidy beard down and knew that something was bothering him. He could not put his finger to it, and that was precisely what irritated and gnashed at his belly.

While he had nothing to hide as the Lord Paramount, he also knew that he had one trump card and one death warrant, all wrapped up in one small, beautiful package. If he played his hands right, he would have both the Vale and Winterfell within his grasp.

And more importantly, he would have Sansa Stark laying next to him in their marriage bed.

But if things went badly, if one thing rolled wrong on his table, he would suffer a fate far worse than death. He would beg to die if it was ever discovered he had hidden Sansa Stark, the last remaining Stark in the world, in the Vale.

So he was careful. But he smiled. There was no way someone from King's Landing could make it into the Eyrie without him knowing. Of this, he was absolutely sure.

 

* * *

 

 

For a moment, she said nothing. Nothing could have been said. Her eyes followed his giant frame up and up.

His face was as hideous as ever; the left side was twisted and red, and wet-looking, as if the wounds still wept all these years later. He pushed his hood back and stringy black hair fell around his face and… oh. Her heart faltered. There was a bit of grey peppering the strands. Grooves were carved deep into the corners of his mouth. But she remembered, wasn’t he but in his twenty-ninth year?

And, _oh._ No. Of course. It’s been so long. Sometimes, she forgot. She forgot that she was but a girl of eleven and songs when they departed Winterfell for King’s Landing. It's been years and years since either of them have laid eyes upon the other. _Years._. She was a woman married at twelve, he was - and here, an uncontrollably shaky smile broke across her face - apparently a Brother of the Faith.

He’s tall. She’s forgotten how very tall he was.

“Girl? Are you deaf as well as dumb?” She saw his hand raise itself, halfway up. But stopped, as if something prevented him from reaching the rest of the way, stopped him from touching her. “Sansa?”

_(Sansa, Sansa, **Sansa** , little bird, winter is coming, Winterfell, father, mother, robbaryajonbranrickon)_

Alayne - no, _Sansa_. The name echoed in her head and suddenly, Winterfell was before her and the itch of snow began to flow through her veins. It fed her strength and it was as if her blood suddenly keened for the North. Her back straightened, Alayne grinned in a queer way, and Sansa pulled herself tall and proud.

“Neither deaf nor dumb, though no more surprising than you, risen from the dead.” She paused. And then bit off with a, “Ser.”

His mouth twitched. And then his gray eyes crinkled in silent laughter. “Got some of the wolf in you now.”

Perhaps her lips trembled. “Less of the dog in you.”

Or perhaps not.

No anger or fury sparked in his eyes; he seemed almost pleased. “No. I’m not much a dog anymore.” He gestured at his leg. “Lost some of the fight, though you still wouldn’t want to cross me, sword in hand.” She remembered the pain from earlier in the evening. The limp that spoke of a grievous injury already long past. He smiled mockingly, a shade of how he was like in King's Landing, so very long ago.

Sansa’s heart twisted. It was almost as if no time has passed, and she sensed the unsaid words. But no; it wasn't the same. She was not frightened of him, he was not intent on frightening her. It was nothing like it once was between them.

Later, she’ll chide herself for being foolish. Later, she’ll flush with a prickly, hot mixture of shame and exhilaration. Later, she’ll touch her wrist and know that the memory of his touch was fresh and strong and _real_.

When she crossed the remaining distance, crossed the floor and the chasm that once separated them, Sansa slipped her arms around his chest (she felt another twinge in her heart; once, she wouldn’t have been able to reach his waist) and hugged him. It’s scandalous. A heat suffused her face but she also can’t help but notice how warm he was, how hot he felt, even through the thick robes. He stiffened in her arms.

But after a few moments, where he had once stood as wooden as a ship's mast, massive arms came around her shoulders and held her closer. Tightens. But instead of feeling as if in a cage, Sansa felt _safe_.

It made her want to both laugh and to cry; for some reason, she thought of Arya and how she’d scold, scold, _scold_ her for letting someone else make her feel safe. But she never had as much of the wolf in her as her brothers and sisters.

They stood there for several moments. Eventually, Sandor loosened his hold and he thrust her away from him. “Do you greet all mystery guests this way, girl? I should have broken in sooner.”

At that, Sansa felt fury crest in her. She was suddenly reminded of all the awful things he had said in King's Landing, of how she sometimes felt that he was wanting something from her that she couldn't give, something she couldn't understand. Not then, not then.

But now.

Unbidden, the painting of the two of them entwined on a bed bled into her skull. Their limbs were wrapped around each other, their hips thrusting in frenzy, and Sansa brought her fist back and punched him _hard_ in the arm. It doesn't hurt him, of course not, but he stepped back anyways and, oh, she breathed in.

He looked _sorry_.

“Didn't mean it like that, girl,” he rasps. She wished it wasn't true, but something hot curls in her gut. His voice still sounds like steel scraping against the stones of a castle, still reminds her of dark stairs, of odd moments in hallways and green wildfyre flashing across her room.

She shook her head. “No, my apologies. I did not... it has...” She squeezed her eyes close. Took a deep breath. “Why are you here?”

Sandor released her, but stayed in front of her. He muttered, “c’mon, Dog. You’re here.” He straightened, as much as he could and growled, “I'm here to fulfill my promise.”

Sansa stared up at him. “What promise? You made no oath to me.” Her hands twitched. She wanted to touch him again. Seven help her, but she did.

He grinned at her; the skin stretched around his scars and it pulled them into a grotesque mask. He bent down onto the floor and Sansa felt her heart hollow out. He was kneeling before her.

“I promised, once, that I would protect you. That I would kill all others who would hurt you.” He gestured at the room. “Fat good I did then, drunk as a skunk and bleeding all over your pretty dress. This time, I aim to make true those useless words of mine.”

Sansa gaped and something cold fluttered in her stomach. “Wait, you knew I was here? You knew it?”

“Bird, you don’t think your hair color fools anyone, does it?”

(bird)

“But it did! No one knows who I am here!”

Sandor grunted. “Except maybe Lord Nestor Royce and his daughter.”

She froze in shock. “No… that cannot be. Randa, she never, she never indicated… she never said a thing…”

“No, she wouldn’t. They knew they were playing a difficult game, and they didn’t know why Littlefucker had you squirreled away here. At first, they thought him on your side, on the Stark side and that was why he hid you in the Vale. Everyone knows he once was a ward of House Tully. But…” And here, Sandor peered at her and swept his eyes from her knees to her head. It wasn’t a lustful gaze; it was one full of concern and fury. “His daughter saw Littlefucker… touch you.”

Humiliation so hot it felt like fire, ripped through her. They knew, Randa knew, _he knew_. “Don’t you dare.” She stepped backward, away from his hands, from his arms. “Do not pity me.”

He stayed on his knees and snarled, “look at me, Sansa. Do I look like the sort to pity, to want pity from anyone?”

“No… no, of course not,” she whispered, half in sick relief. Of course. The Hound always hated pity, always hated her careful courtesies. He wouldn’t pity her.

“As I was saying, before you interrupted me, they knew. Somehow, The eunuch-”

Sansa breathed. “Lord Varys?”

‘Hmph, yes. I don’t know how you do it, but you get all the most fucked up men to be half in love with you.” He didn’t look away from her when he said that, and Sansa felt her cheeks redden. “Somehow, he knew I wasn’t dead, that I was on the Quiet Isle; I wager that had something to do with the Elder Brother. The Brothers don’t involve themselves in the wars of the common man, but he said that Lord Varys owed your Lord father a favor and that the Quiet Isle would repay it.” Sandor growled.

Her head spun with all the new information; she didn’t know how Lord Varys knew this Elder Brother, and she didn’t know why the Elder Brother would so willingly come with… “no, no, no, Sandor. Your Brothers, they will be in danger if Petyr finds out who you are!”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But it does! He’ll have them imprisoned! You don’t know what he’s like, he’s-”

“A little fucker. Sansa, _Sansa_. Look at me.”

_Look at me!_

“He’s not going to hurt you. He’s not going to hurt anyone,” Sandor rasped. “You think we came here with no plans? No, we’ll be leaving from the Gates. To make things easier for the Royces, we’ll be leaving in the night and quietly. But as soon as everything is done here, I promise you - he’ll find no allies in the Vale. Winter is coming, and the Vale knows King’s Landing cannot move against them.” He tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear and Sansa shivered.

“But I’d still be more than happy to gut him for you. Rip his ballsack off and stuff it so far up his arse he can taste it on his treacherous tongue.”

The crude words should have sent her gasping.

Now, she barely blinks. Somehow, his anger _for_ her fills the black hole in her heart with a slow warmth, cradled low in the pit of her belly. Sansa shook her head, but came closer, placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder. On his knees, Sandor was shorter than her, but not by much. He didn’t so much as twitch, but gazed at her like she was something out of a dream for him. The room was warm with the fire, but the air around him scorched, and there was a fuzziness building in her head.

His scars were craggy and shadowed in the firelight, but when did they stop being a frightful thing? She brought a hand up and traced the scars that blanketed the side of his face, stroked the place empty place his ear should have been, and the sliver of bone on his jaw. She didn’t imagine it; he shivered, felt the shudder through her fingertips. His eyes were still dark and grey, the color of a winter sky before rain and Sansa leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his ruined cheek. The rough edges of his scar caught on the soft skin of her lips and it shot a bolt straight down her spine and into suddenly trembling legs.

At first, Sandor didn’t seem to respond. He was very much like the stone that protected the Eyrie from raiders.

His hands came up to her waist and it might have been gentle, it might have been restrained. But the look in his eyes were nothing like and she felt scorching flames lick at her stomach as he first looked between her and her throat. Sandor didn’t move for a long moment. And Sansa realized he was asking for permission, he was _asking_ for her to allow him to… Sansa’s breath hitched and she nodded, head moving jerkily.

Sandor didn’t pause; his head immediately bent and rough - oh, _god_ \- lips touched the sensitive skin on her pulse and he sipped at the skin so lightly there, she seemed to feel every burnt crevice like a tiny earthquake that was digging its way under and it was enough to take her breath away. His arms wrapped itself loosely around her waist - tears pricked Sansa’s eyes, he was giving her enough space to get away, she had the control - and his mouth moved its way from her neck and blazing a trail along its path to her lips where he paused.

He rasped into her mouth, and she felt it down to her very bones, the shake and rumble. “I swear, upon my sword and every buggering thing that’s left to swear upon, that I’ll stay with you to the ends of the world. With all that my sorry life’s worth, I’ll defend you from those who would hurt you, who would use you for your claim. I’m yours, Sansa Stark, till the Stranger herself comes collect me.”

(Somewhere in Sansa, Alayne Stone looked up. She smiled. _I’m still here as well,_ she thought.)

They stayed like that for long moments, their breaths mingling and barely a parchment apart.

Sansa took his gaze in and breathed, “I’m going to reclaim the North.”

And Sandor bent his knee and with his one rusty sword, vowed an oath.

 

* * *

 

 

It should have been harder, but it wasn't. They slip out and a few words here and there and they head down the mountain. No one cares about a bastard girl. They care less for a Brother who is apparently sneaking out with a wench.

They made for the Gates of the Moon and then they were past it.

It was so ridiculously easy that Sansa wanted to cry. No one was even aware she was missing. And no one would be, not until they realized no one had seen her. And so few would report it; a beloved bastard-girl is not beloved by all others and she had taken enough sudden breakfasts in Petyr’s solar, that no one would think to ask the others where might be until far, far too late.

Sansa imagined the look on Littlefinger’s face, when he realized she had slipped from his ever-tightening net. And she laughed.

The bulky man riding beside her glanced over. “What’s so funny?”

“This. Us. The look on his face when he realizes I’m gone.” Sansa tossed her hair back within its hood. “He shall be quite surprised.”

He grunted. “Littlefucker will have a hard time explaining where his daughter is, and why should she would disappear from the safety of the castle. The Royces will see to that. No, you will be revealed in time.”

Sansa nodded, her heart beating faster. She had considered all the paths that were available to them, she knew that the Royces were going to declare for the Starks. While not of the North, they were of the Arryns, the Tully’s, and the Lords still remembered the Starks.

_The North remembers._

“Where will we head first?” Sansa asked.

He raised an eyebrow at her, clear even under all his wrappings.

“It is logical we would not head straight to Winterfell; while I might be that senseless, once upon a time, you certainly are not. We need supplies, we need support. We would not last a fortnight in the North without aid.”

Sandor snorted. “Aye, maybe less than that, if the cold is cruel.”

“But you have chosen to bring me away, and there seems to be others at work here. Which suggests you do have a plan, that there is aid, somewhere. But it is not in the North.”

“No, Sansa. It’s not.” Sandor pulled his cowl down to speak more clearly. “You have possession of the North; do you believe that the lordly families of the North would not bend their craven heads to the last remaining Stark?” Something in his eyes flickered as he said that. “No, you Northerners are all alike, fanciful and loyal to a fault. The only exception being that bastard family of Boltons.” He growled.

Her heart hurt.

She pressed a hand to her chest and rubbed the bone there absentmindedly. “It has not been so long and yet four years have taken us by surprise.” A lifetime for the both of them and yet, not enough time for either. She was no longer a child, but she was not yet a lady like her mother. There was still so much she didn't understand.

But this she had always understood: in the end, it had been a Northern bannerman that betrayed their family.

She spoke aloud. “A Lannister always pays their debts, and the north remembers.”

Stranger snorted, as if in answer. Sandor stared into the dark and foliage ahead of them.

He was strangely quiet before he spoke again. “Your little wild wolf of a sister... she's still alive. She made it out of King's Landing after Joffrey had your father executed. And... we were there. At Red Wedding.”

Even years later, her heart still can fly to her throat and threaten to choke her at the knowledge of those words. But with long practice, she shoved it back down before she realized that his arm has tightened around her. It took a moment for her to see the action as it was. It almost made her cry; Sandor was attempting to comfort her in the only way he knew. She looked up at his chin. _He is going to be here for me._

No, she no longer needs to hide this. It was a sorrow, a grief, something she has long kept quiet. But there was no need for quiet here. Here, she could think of Robb, could think of her mother. Of how they died far from home and family, how Robb never saw his unborn child, and how Sansa will never meet her goodsister.

_When Sansa hears the news, and knows truly that she is the last Stark of Westeros, she sits and looks at Tyrion. He is ashen, is like winter-born pools, and his stunted hand is restless, as if he wishes to comfort her but does not know how._

_It seems a faraway thing; her blood is so cold and she feels numb and as it is as if everything is swimming in bog water. She can hear Shae’s intake of breath and can feel the ghosting of hands across her hair, across her shoulders, worry is pouring from the woman._

_“Did they suffer?”_

_She doesn’t know why she asks, but it is important, it is very important to know whether Robb and... _Mother_ , she quakes, Sansa needs to know._

_“Yes.” Tyrion doesn’t mince his words, but neither does he look joyful as Joffrey would. It is not a comfort. “It was a massacre and from what I know, your mother and brother were the last to die as they watched the Freys and Boltons slaughter your bannermen and those declared to the North. Sansa. Sansa, you must know, your brother’s wife, the woman he married, she and... she and her unborn child were killed as well.”_

_In her mind, she sees this faceless woman that her brother loves - no, he loved, loved, _loved_ \- and how she will never meet this person, will never know the warmth of her hug, will never see the light in Robb’s eyes as he watches his sister and wife greet each other with love and devotion. Bile rises in her throat. Sansa swallows it back with a tremble in her heart. _Oh,_ she thinks. Her goodsister, this woman is - _was_ \- her goodsister and Sansa will never, ever meet her._

_And the tide is upon her. She feels a pit of blackness build up behind her vision and she hears Shae push Tyrion out, she hears her lock the door._

_**mother** _

_Then, and only then, does Sansa weep._

But still. She was long-practiced. She focused on Sandor’s words. “Arya? How?” She could feel the words hammer at her heart. Arya was lost, was gone - she disappeared from King’s Landing right as their father was imprisoned. Nothing was found of her, Sansa was as sure of this as she was of anything else. If they had found her, if they had killed her, Sansa didn't doubt Joffrey would have served her little sister’s head to her at his… at his wedding.

Arya escaped. She must have.

Sansa thought her dead anyways. The world was full of death; how could one young child survive?

“She’s alive. Or, at least she was, before she left me on the shores of the Trident for dead.” Sandor laughed and his chest rumbles against her back. “Though, I suppose I should thank her. If she hadn’t been so merciless, I wouldn’t be here with you, riding for the bones of Winterfell.”

“How did she survive?” Sansa clasps her hands together to control herself. “You mean, after. Was this after…” She finds the words sticking in her throat. For all this time, they’ve avoided this particular memory.

_Sansa smiles, the blood in her mouth, and she bares her neck to the Hound as his fangs close around the soft remainders of her heart._

“No,” she speaks aloud before thinking. Sandor eyes her as if she is mad and Sansa hastens to clarify. “No, what I mean is. Was this after…” She swallows. “Was this after the Battle of Blackwater Bay?”

He flinched. His eyes slid away from her and Sansa knew. Sansa felt like she’s always known, but this gave it the cold clarity of dawn.

Sandor was ashamed. Was ashamed of that night. When he pinned her to the bed and held a knife to her throat for a pretty song. She had dreamed of things that didn't happen that night, of a kiss which was a falsity, of him in her bed for a bedding when it was never anything of her fantasies and dreams. All those secret tears, it was only a man, only him. And all he wanted was comfort.

“Little bird, I-”

“Call me by my name.”

“... Sansa.”

She took a deep breath. “It was wrong of you, that night. No, let me finish. It was wrong of you, and I remembered that night many times in the years since. But, you must know. I did not fear you. I _did not fear you_. Not in the way I feared Joffrey and the Queen. You were cruel, and it was wrong of you to do what you did. And.” Her cheeks betrayed her and flushed bright red. “And… I know what you wanted that night.” She took a deep breath. “But I did not fear you.”

There was a silence, broken only by the sounds of the light snow crunching beneath their mounts. It was a beautiful night, with the moon filtering down between the rocks and trees. It bathed the whole mountain with silvery light. But there were clouds in the distance; Sansa had to smile. There would be a snowfall, and soon. It would help disguise the trail they were leaving.

Sometimes, the Gods did listen to her silent prayers.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. Doesn’t matter if you didn’t fear me, still was a bloody monster that night.”

It’s strange, that they could go so seamlessly from thing to thing. Her memories were painful; she didn’t think that would ever change. She still remembered the dark days in King’s Landing, and even more so the terrible days she found out about Bran and Rickon, and Robb and her lady mother. But he was there, beside her, and that made all the difference in the world.

“Yes, you were. But you know what?” She waited until he turned to look at her and their horses slowed down. She held his eyes true. “In all those years after, I wished that I had left with you that frightful night.”

She watched. She watched as something like understanding flood his eye, watched as his gaze grew heavy and she felt the beginning of a blush crawl its way up her neck. Sansa didn’t let herself shy away as his hand came up, hesitant and slow, to touch two fingers to the hollow of her throat. He must feel the hammering of her pulse, must smell the dampness that was gathering between her breasts, at the small of her back, at the sweet burn between her legs.

Sansa swallowed against the rough pads of his fingers and she can see him follow in an convulsive answer. His gaze consumed her until all that was left was the beating of her heart and the feel of his hand against her.

He rubbed her pulse once, twice, and then leaned down toward, his scars looming and the look in his eyes something that reminded her of heat, of lust, of hunger.. _He’s going to kiss me,_ she thought, faintly, giddily.

But instead, he licked her cheek.

She would have shrieked and fallen off her horse if not for his steady hand and rumbling laughter. He smoothed one large hand down the front of her robes, lingered at the fullness of one breast, and then curled it around her hip. “Little bird, we’ll save the rest for another time.”

Face burning, she looked away as he laughed harder. She felt embarrassment go up and down her spine, but, oh, oh, the sound of his laughter was sweet and good. It wasn’t the derisive, angry sort she remembered, but something fond and generous, as if the bitterness had… no, not bled out. No, it was still there, wavering like a moontide. But it was different.

He was different. That was the only word for it.

Sandor cocked his head to look through the dim light filtering through the leaves. The flurries were getting stronger, and they would need to find shelter at some point, but neither of them said anything. He whistled between his teeth and set Stranger off with a sharp press to the horses' flanks, with Sansa's grey palfrey following. They headed deeper into the woods and while the snow seemed steady and unending, Sans could tell with a single glance that they would only last the afternoon and would fade by the next morning. But she could smell it in the air, the damp, the cold, the breathless sky.

_Winter is coming._

Sansa closed her eyes.

She wasn't a fool, not anymore. The journey from the Riverlands to the eventual reclaiming of Winterfell would be long and difficult, if almost not impossible. They had coin, but not an unending amount. His face was far too recognizable, and her hair could never be unseen once it was exposed. They were battling armies and marauders, those who wanted her for her claim and for her blood. Sandor would be fighting against bandits and wildings, against Northerners who had betrayed her family, against Lannisters intent on taking their vengeance, against simple men who simply wanted a taste of her flesh.

Littlefinger would send men after them, as would the rest of Westeros. There were no secrets; no matter how loyal the Royces were, the gossip would spread. The news would reach far tendrils and eventually…

Perhaps the rumors of the last Targaryen Dragon Queen would come to fruition and even she would chase Sansa to the ends of the world for vengeance against the last of Eddard Stark’s kin.

No, Sansa was no fool. Her family was dead, was scattered. She had a half-brother on the Wall, and possibly a sister lost to the winds. They had no allies, no bannermen to call. They were alone.

Their journey would end in Winterfell, whether in death or in life. She opened her eyes. Sandor was ahead of her, a giant rock riding ahead of her, and while he was no knight, was no hero in her dreams, he was here. He lived and breathed, pressed light fingers into her skin because he _wanted_ to touch her. He was only one sword, one horse. But he wanted to be there, he had no hopes for glory or fortune.

But he was here.

And Sansa smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Took me a while for me to post this, so I've cleaned and edited it a bit for clarity, function and all those funny words. I realized I've been really dead in the water about writing, and I'm trying to change that. 
> 
> ... maybe.


End file.
